


Together We Will Take the World Apart

by Hattingmad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hattingmad/pseuds/Hattingmad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final battle between Dumbledore and Grindelwald doesn't quite go as planned. The rehabilitation of Albus Dumbledore is required.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the delicate art of breaking

 

 

They are dueling.

They have always been dueling, in a sense, whether the battle was of wits or of tongues and teeth and skin. Now it is of deadly wands and reflexes, of power and humility. For every spell Dumbledore sends at him, Grindelwald has a counter; his curses are new, the result of painstaking research he's done alone in the intervening years between their summer and now. The wizarding world sees two geniuses struggling for the Greater Good: one who will relinquish power back to the unwashed masses, and one who would set up a kingdom with himself as a god.

Dumbledore shouts, "Put down your wand and all will be forgiven!" A noble gesture, but expected, really, from him (or from the person he's become, which amounts to the same thing, doesn't it?).

"You don't mean that," Grindelwald replies, casting an arc of deadly fire toward the other man: blood magic. The Dark Arts. It is elegant, as all his work is elegant, and Dumbledore's seems crude in comparison. Dumbledore puts up a shield to bounce the flames off as Grindelwald continues,

"There are some things that wound too deep to forgive." He dances in closer and whispers low, meant only for Dumbledore's ears:

"Why did you wait so long to come after me?"

"I had hoped..."

"What? That I'd change? Give up our quest for the Hallows, for the Greater Good?" He shakes his head and a flash of silver at his ear swings back and forth. "You're the one who changed, Albus. You betrayed us, everything we worked for. I never did."

"Remember that day by the lake?" Dumbledore's mouth purses into a thin line. "You said you loved me. Fool that I was, I almost believed you. And then you killed Ariana."

Grindelwald's eyes flash a dangerous ice blue.

"I didn't kill your sister. It was an accident." He leans closer still, releases a puff of acrid smoke around them to conceal his hand reaching up, stroking Albus's cheek as the other man closes his eyes and leans into the touch, even now. For they are Albus and Gellert in that moment, just two men who dreamed together as boys and have, after all this time, an undeniable attraction-

"I meant what I said that day. I still do. More fool you, not to know it." Tears prick Albus's eyes and he wipes his glasses on the sleeve of his robe. The smoke has almost gone.

It is a hard thing, to want too much. He could call down the lightning from the sky and have his skin crackle with its power, every hair on his body standing on end; he could say the word and the very rocks themselves would leap to do his bidding. Part of him longs for that kind of power again. It is a drug— Gellert is a drug— and he is an addict who, having been clean for years, is now confronted with his favorite intoxicating poison.

His head bows under the weight of his choices; he feels ill at heart. Gellert sees it in his eyes and pities him for it, though he does understand. He never did anything by halves, never had to live with the guilt and the doubt and the fear that haunt Albus even now, in what should be his moment of greatest triumph.

Time to be Dumbledore, defender of the wizarding world again. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian… can wait. Must wait. He takes a step back from the other wizard and composes himself once more.

"I know you," Grindelwald says, in a voice spelled to resonate for miles. "You expect me to raze this place to the ground, destroy everything in sight, and make the dramatic gesture so you can make a single flower bloom. But let's be honest. You don't have the finesse." His eyes narrow. The resonating charm dissipates. "And I have the Elder Wand."

All of Dumbledore's concentration has been thus far on defending himself from Grindelwald's attacks while looking for an opening to cast a spell of his own. Now his eyes widen in shock and horror as he realizes that the man has in fact found the Elder Wand at last, without his help. The dark exultation is in Grindelwald's eyes. A cold wind whips around him, blowing his unruly blond locks around his ecstatic handsome face (for though they are both in their sixties, they look perhaps half that number: wizards age slower than Muggles- or rather, they do when they have performed the kinds of youth-preservation magic he and Grindelwald did long ago). He rises into the air without aid of broom. The part of Albus that must always stay hidden and smothered itches to join him, to bury his fingers in that silken hair and cry aloud with the feelings that threaten to overwhelm him whenever the heady combination of Dark magic and Gellert are near.

He closes his eyes on the sight, but now casts a spell of his own, one that encompasses and calls upon the powers of Light, of wizards and witches who have laid down their lives to stop Grindelwald, who would have loaned Dumbledore their strength had he only thought to ask for it. But this is a battle he must fight alone, as he has always planned, and he presses forward.

Grindelwald drops from the air like a stone, laughing as he hits the ground.

"Good show," he calls, wiping the blood from his lips where Dumbledore has hit him with a metaphysical punch. Dumbledore refuses to use the magic he learnt in their time together against his old friend, though he could so easily best Grindelwald with one well-placed Dark spell. The knowledge gnaws at him. Should he, for the safety of all, for the greater good...? But no, that is no longer the course he has set himself. Not the Greater Good, but the individuals he seeks to protect, and yet Grindelwald's "good" is neither good nor great if Albus assumes right and oh, it sets his head to spinning.

What a task they have set him, those who do not know what is between them, the summer when good and great and wonderful were all blurred and meaningless terms in the light that hit Gellert's face and that one glorious kiss they shared that turned the world upside down. Albus no longer knows what the greater good is.

The irony is almost too much to bear.

Grindelwald smiles. He forgets, the self-righteous prat, that Dark wizards can love too, and that love conquers all.

At the last, he doesn't even need the Elder Wand or the esoteric knowledge he's accumulated over the years. At the last, all he needs is himself and wandless magic. They are close enough now, locked in unending combat, that they could touch again, or kiss. Albus tilts his head and Gellert's lips part; he drops the Elder Wand and Albus's eyes flicker up to meet his in hope and disbelief for an instant, only an instant.

It is enough. Grindelwald murmurs a command and Dumbledore falls unconscious onto the ground.

"Rest, Albus", Gellert says, cradling him to his chest in the aftermath of their battle. Albus has staved off the duel for so long, every year hoping never to come to this, always knowing in the back of his mind that Gellert was the stronger. He won in the end. He always did.

"We'll be princes, Kings. We'll set the world to rights, just like we promised. You'll see. We were meant for greater things. It's time to take up that mantle and join forces, as we always intended. Together, we are unstoppable." He sighs, taking in the half-moon glasses, the short reddish beard and Albus's perpetually ink-stained hands.

"I've missed you," he confesses, "but you'll come back to me now." He strokes the dreaming man's hair in a tender gesture, then scoops him up and  _Levicorpus_ es him. They are going home to his fortress.

"Rest now," Gellert tells him. "I'll take care of you." In his sleep, Albus mutters something that might be Gellert's name.

 


	2. Abducting the Light

The newspapers in England all declare it is a sad day for wizarding kind, that Albus Dumbledore has been taken captive and held prisoner in Grindelwald's domain. There is talk of raising an army against him, and Elphias Doge writes strongly worded calls to arms in all the major newspapers, but without a master strategist, plans go astray. It is hard to rescue your leader from an invisible fortress whose location no one knows.

In other, colder countries, there is fierce rejoicing and celebration. Gellert has predicted this day to his followers: the day the two princes will be reunited to lead them into a glorious future. He has warned, too, that the fair prince and the red prince might be at odds for a time, and that if they hear nothing of him, they should not be alarmed. The red prince has been damaged by time spent amongst corrupting influences and base, crude people who have crippled his mind. There is much work to do, Grindelwald tells his forces before he leaves for Castle Tarchanjan.

* * *

The first thing Dumbledore sees, when he sits up far too quickly, is Grindelwald's face peering over him intently.

Dumbledore's hand shoots to his head in the wake of a throbbing headache that has suddenly overtaken him and he lowers himself back down to the soft mattress on which he reclines. His brain makes attempts to process the information his body is receiving. He dueled Grindelwald yesterday… or was it yesterday? How long has he been out?

"About a week," says a mellifluous voice from above him, and Dumbledore instinctively reaches for his wand, but it isn't there (of course. Grindelwald's not stupid).

"I'm kidnapping you," it adds gleefully.

Well, _shit_.

He's not hallucinating Grindelwald's presence —or his Legilimency— which means… means… he lost. It means that it's been a week and no one has come for him, and why should they? He wasn't supposed to need rescuing.

Dumbledore covers his eyes with the heels of his hands and presses hard, an overwhelming wave of _failure-guilt-dismay_ crashing over him so suddenly that his stomach twists and he turns and throws up onto a white bearskin rug, feeling seventeen and lost again. He is shaking with the effort it takes not to sob at his catastrophe: he has let everyone down, he has doomed the wizarding world, and it is All. His. Fault.

Death would surely be better than whatever the other wizard has in store for him.

"Don't be so dramatic," Grindelwald huffs, and he belatedly remembers to use Occlumency to shield his thoughts. And yet, that well-hidden part of him whispers insidiously _'isn't it nice to have a conversation where he just knows, and you don't have to say anything at all?'_

"It wasn't Legilimency that time, you git," Grindelwald sighs. "I just know you too well. Or," he adds quietly, "I used to."

He stands up, dusts himself off, waves a cleaning charm toward the rug. "Bathroom's down the hall," he says, motioning.

Dumbledore can only nod and totter off, clutching himself around the waist as if he can keep himself from falling to pieces that way. He notices that they must be in a cold northern country: it is dark outside and he can almost see his breath in the corridor that leads to the purported bathroom. He wonders, curious, if it is Norway; he'd heard that Grindelwald was setting up house there to build an army of Inferi or somesuch. He's not sure if he believes it.

He stumbles upon the bathroom because the air behind the half-open door feels steamy and warm, and he falls in, staring at the elaborate structure. It looks as though it was carved out of solid marble, the sink with its washbasin and the bathtub with feet— that convention always amused Gellert, and this one is animated and the bathtub trots toward him like a perverse dog, wagging its spout at him like a tail. The gilt mirror reminds him too much of the Mirror of Erised, which he hit upon a few years ago during his professorship late one night while he was looking for the bathroom.

Dumbledore closes his eyes as he strips and slides into the tub; he does not wish to remember the things that he saw there. Too many of them have to do with the man who has haunted his dreams for almost half a century, the man who is (perhaps) just outside this bathroom door, the man who was once his other half and now his enemy. His vanquisher. But the Erised visions were of shameful desires, pleasures of the flesh that never happened except in his imagination; worse yet, dark fantasies in which he and Gellert ruled as benevolent dictators.

He hangs his head in shame at his weakness as the bathtub scrubs him clean. This is why he never accepted the position of Minister of Magic, though he was begged to take it. He is not worthy, or he fears he would be unable to control himself with so much power at his fingertips just waiting for him to revolutionize the world with it. Fitting, then, that he should be held prisoner. It is a lowly position. He can hardly do harm in chains. He stares into the mirror with the same dead, dull eyes he will shortly turn on Grindelwald; Albus hopes they terrify him. He terrifies himself.

There were clothes in the bathroom provided for him, clothes fit for a lord or a kingling. He starts to decline them and dress himself in his week-old robes: any concession, no matter how small, gives Grindelwald more of an advantage. The bath was for his own benefit. Then he reconsiders, realizing that he is freezing and the wizard will only mock him for his choice, and dons the surprisingly warm green robe over the white shirt and black trousers also provided. They fit perfectly, as he suspected they would. Everything about this has been planned for years, he is sure. Gellert would never leave the details to chance.

Escape is inconceivable, not even to be thought of. He goes to meet his fate, dramatic as Gellert accused him of being, all those years ago. Hours ago. Time is already melting in his mind in this place; he only hopes his sanity is not melting with it.

* * *

Gellert Grindelwald sighs as he breaks yet another quill nib in his correspondence to Winston Churchill; he has little patience right now, and that is being eaten up waiting for Albus to emerge. He will not react well to being held captive, that is certain, but Gellert hopes his charm can overcome any misapprehensions Albus may be having. He wonders for a moment if Albus let him win, but he thinks he would have been able to tell if that were the case. No. He may be the younger, but he is the stronger of the two, and he takes some satisfaction in that. He knows what a powerful lure the Hallows quest holds on them both. Their boyhood dreams can finally take shape.

Of course, back then, Albus was willing. Now he will have to be persuaded of many things, not least of which is that Gellert is still trustworthy. They will be partners, friends, comrades in arms, and- dare he think it- lovers. Yes. He brushes the feather of his quill idly across his cheek and twines a lock of his hair around a finger. He will be expected to gloat: it's almost required, really. But he is not unnecessarily cruel, whatever the papers may say of him. What he will do now, he does for the Greater Good, as well as— he admits without embarrassment— his own personal gain.

He turns, hearing footsteps approaching. Albus never needed a guide to find him, and it pleases him to see that hasn't changed. He stands in a fluid motion, pushing back his chair.

"If you are going to kill me, do so quickly," Albus says in a monotone, looking blankly past Grindelwald's shoulder. The other man is wearing a deep burgundy robe trimmed with ermine and a stunned expression.

"Kill you?" He exclaims. "And rid the world of such a brilliant intellect? I am many things, Albus, but wasteful is not one of them." He chuckles softly to himself.

"Kill you," he says again, shaking his head. "What you must think of me."

"So you're just going to keep me prisoner here and torture me instead?" Dumbledore guesses. Grindelwald shrugs, mischievous.

"Is being in my presence torturous?" That answer is easy, almost too easy. _Always_.

Aloud, Albus says nothing.

"Ah, but not as torturous as being without me, I suspect. That's fine," Gellert says, clapping his hands, "you don't have to speak just yet." He is clearly amused. "I'll say the hard things for both of us. Do sit down." He motions to his own chair; Albus, wary of traps, does not take it.

"I prefer to stand," he says stiffly.

"I suppose I deserved that," Gellert says, hanging his head like a scolded puppy-dog. "To start, I must apologize for leaving you unconscious for a week. I'm trying to destroy Hitler, you see, and I'm afraid I got rather wrapped up in a council meeting…" he trails off, mock-sheepish, a manufactured flush staining his cheeks for just a moment too long to be sincere.

Albus feels his mouth hanging open in astonishment. That is what Grindelwald has been doing with his army? Collaborating with Muggles to rid the world of Hitler? Surely not.

"We're getting close, I feel sure of it. Wars can be so tiresome, don't you think?" He flicks his wrist as if to brush away a fly. "By July, I predict we'll have this all sorted out." He heaves a sigh and flops down, boneless, into his chair.

"What? I can't have a Muggle with distorted ideas about supremacy hell-bent on world domination, now can I?" He says with a lopsided grin. "I have to eradicate the competition, even if it is rather beneath me. Besides, the man's a crackpot."

Albus feels that there is absolutely nothing he can say without his better judgment flying out of his head and fleeing for a more hospitable climate. Gellert gives him a sympathetic look.

"There, there. I know it's a lot to take in at once." He looks regretful (a good performance, as his usually are). "I am sorry I can't return your wand to you yet, but I'm not convinced that you wouldn't just take the opportunity to restart our duel, and I can't have that. But in all other aspects, I shall try to be a perfect host. Would you like something to eat? Are you hungry?"

For lack of anything else to do, Albus nods once.

"Excellent." Gellert dances off, turning once at the doorway to see if Albus is following. "Come on, then. We're raiding the kitchen." His enthusiasm is infectious, or would be, if Dumbledore wasn't fighting against it with every fibre in his being.

"Raiding," he repeats weakly. He allows himself the minor indulgence of an eye-roll, and follows.


	3. Falling Awake

Grindelwald watches the wariness in Dumbledore's eyes as he follows him into the kitchen. Grindelwald's manner is very reminiscent of the Pied Piper to Albus, and he mistrusts the open, honest-looking face that forms words asking if he would like to eat.

"What, pray tell, is so diabolical about me feeding you?" Grindelwald snaps impatiently, startling Albus from his reverie. He seems almost… offended. "It wouldn't even be the first time."

Unbidden, the image flickers through his mind:

_in the August heat, under the shade of a leafy oak, Gellert idly wafts strawberries and bites of cheese into Albus's mouth with his wand; then, in a mercurial mood, he leans in with his fingertips and brushes both the fruit and his fingers (dripping with juice) across Albus's lips. He falls back laughing at the Muggle way of sharing food. Albus feels it wisest not to mention, blush staining his cheeks behind his long curtain of hair, that what Gellert just did is more along the lines of feeding a lover._

Even now, he feels the heat on his face at the memory and wishes he still wore his hair down to hide it. Gellert touches his own lips, flicks his gaze to Albus, smiles knowingly.

"You are concerned, perhaps, that I shall injure myself with the knife? Rest assured, I have long since mastered the culinary arts." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Or rather, taken a tour of the memories of some who have mastered the culinary arts, which amounts to the same thing in practice, doesn't it? Patience," he admits, "was the hardest lesson to learn. I could magic a soufflé out of the oven hours early without collapsing it, but it always tasted better when I waited."

"I'm surprised you don't just employ legions of house elves to do it for you."

"Oh," Gellert says flippantly, "I do that too. That's the other kitchen. This one is for my own gastronomic experimentation, but if you insist…" He juts out his lower lip in a reasonable facsimile of a pout, and rings a small bell secreted inside his robes. "That was the 'after-hours snack' ring. Food should be along shortly. But I must insist you indulge me by trying at least one of my concoctions." He points to a self-chilling bottle of a golden liquid, which uncaps itself and pours out into a glass.

Albus accepts it, not wishing to be impolite to his host…  _captor_ , he reminds himself,  _and it hardly matters if you're civil, except that you have better breeding than that and your mother would be ashamed._

Grindelwald pounces on something he sees moving out of the corner of his eye, holding his cupped hands out to Albus.

"I call them  _grenouille a la chocolat,_  but they're not perfected yet. I can ever only get one good jump out of them- chocolate isn't very naturally bouncy, you see- or else the magic goes haywire and they start hopping all over the place. Like this fellow here," he mutters, tsking as he absentmindedly deposits the chocolate amphibian into a pocket. "But!" He turns back to Albus and holds out the golden goblet with a flourish.

"Drink up. Please. I'll even take a sip first to demonstrate it's not poison." He does so, closing his eyes in apparent relish at the flavor.

Albus concedes and swallows, stumbling backward as the taste of decadence and sleepy contentment with a lingering note of melancholy washes over him. He tastes the emotions as a rich dark heady wine, a cider that warms his belly as it trickles down his throat, and a sweep of cinnamon that turns to bitter dregs and salty tears the longer it stays on his tongue.

  
"I've bottled an evening in 1924, where a cabaret dancer spends one last night with her lover before he goes off to seek his fortune abroad. He never returns. It's one of my more delicate vintages. Do you like it?" Gellert looks up through his absurdly long lashes at Albus, waiting for his reaction.

"I've never experienced anything like it," Dumbledore says honestly, feeling the corners of his mouth want to tug up into a wonder-filled smile. He resists the urge and instead says, "How?"

"Trifles only. Showy but impractical. Still, I'm glad you enjoyed it." Gellert shrugs the question off with ease. "I smell sustenance. Come with me and we'll feast, and you shall regale me with horror stories of how your colleagues view me."

Dumbledore watches him go, uneasy. He does not think Grindelwald will take well to what the other half of the wizarding world has to say about him.

* * *

Another room, another pristine view through murals and paintings of the frozen world outside, a small marble table set with sumptuous foodstuffs and overstuffed chairs, and Grindelwald chooses to run to the window and ignore it all, entranced by the view.

 "Oh, look, snow!" He calls, delighted, pressing his nose to the pane like a small child. "Go on then, eat." He waves his hand at Albus.

"What is this place?" Albus asks, slowly sinking into his chair. He picks up a roll and butters it.

"Castle Tarchanjan," Grindelwald replies, prying himself away from the window at last and joining Albus at the table.

"Really, Gellert?" He says incredulously, the man's first name slipping out of his mouth before he can catch it, distracted by the academic challenge presenting itself to him.

"A thousand year old German word?"

Grindelwald laughs, nodding, acknowledging his self-indulgence (secretly pleased to hear his name on the other man's lips).

"I felt it was appropriate," he says, spreading his hands palms-up.

"Well, you  _are_  concealing me here, among other things."

"True. Now tell me, what misapprehensions have the British wizards been laboring under regarding my cause? I'm very curious to know, considering I've avoided the area. Out of respect for you, of course," he says, dimpling, insincere.

Albus takes a deep breath. This won't be pretty.

* * *

"They're comparing me to  _Hitler_?" Grindelwald spits out his cider, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his elegant robe with no regard to its ruination. "I cannot tell you how insulted I am. They thought I was  _abetting_ him? Me, the lackey of that puerile-brained psychopathic dilettante, and a Muggle no less? Ha!" He paces back and forth in his irritation and affrontery, electrical sparks crackling from his fingertips as he balls his hands into fists. Dumbledore is surprised, to say the least. He had assumed that Gellert had heard the rumours.

 "And all the while I thought that concealing my actions from the wizarding community for a time would lead to greater profit later, and they have stamped me an associate of Hitler's? Why, Albus?" He slams his hands down onto the table and the marble veins and cracks under his onslaught. "Tell me why I would conceivably do such a thing, when my ultimate goal is to have the Muggles themselves come to the realization that we are superior beings and thank us for our leadership? What good does careless genocide for my cause?" The fury and frustration in his face are alarming, as is the fact that at any time he could take the Elder Wand and blow them both to pieces. He takes a deep, calming breath, and Albus is sure that Gellert can read his trepidation on his face.

Gellert looks at him for a moment, and what Albus was sure was going to be a pasted smile for his benefit turns (as far as he can tell) genuine, blooming deliberate and slow, clearing the vestiges of anger from the room. Gellert taps the side of his nose.

Many years ago, that was a sign they were about to embark on one of their odd word-association games of the mind, speaking in a language only they knew. It is his turn to go first, if he chooses to accept. What is the lesser of two evils? Grindelwald on a rampage, or Grindelwald in a good mood where he can possibly be persuaded? Albus convinces himself he is participating not because he wants to, but because it is the better choice.

"Nitwit," he says, picking his word carefully. Grindelwald laughs in glee that Albus remembers.

"Blubber," he says, daring Albus to find the next correct piece of the puzzle.

"Oddment," Albus replies haltingly.

"Tweak," Grindelwald says, his body straining with barely contained energy. Now they are on new and unfamiliar ground.

"Finagle," Albus continues, picking up an apple.

"Gobbletygook." Gellert dances in and takes a bite out of the apple, grins, and steps back. Albus knows what Gellert expects him to say, but he shan't. He stares at his apple, sighs and puts it down. Sometimes Gellert can be so obvious.

"Eleventy-one." Gellert's eyes widen at the unexpected response.

"Naturally." He cocks his head. "I've miles to go before I sleep, but I won't bore you by forcing you to sit through my strategy councils and watch me write letters to Churchill. One of the house-elves can take you to the library; I suspect you'll find it most… intriguing." He stands and sweeps away, light on his feet.

Albus has the strangest suspicion that it is just as likely that Grindelwald will be standing in the snow, face tilted to the sky and the gently falling flakes, as it is that he is plotting the end of the war. He is not sure which image confounds him more.


	4. Of Hubris and Hallows

Gellert Grindelwald's advisors are never sure quite what to think about him. On many occasions, he is ruthless, cool and commanding, a worthy leader for them to follow and competent beyond belief. He exhibits genius that they can only dream of, and his visionary leadership makes them want to follow him right into hell if need be.

But other times, he seems easily distracted and childlike and his priorities are all lopsided. He takes a fierce and pure delight in life to the point of ignoring their council altogether. He'll shush their reports of battle strategy to watch a ladybug crawl across his palm or scribble down a sonnet on his handkerchief. He'll ride an enormous claw-footed bathtub into the room and make everyone draw him a picture before he lets them proceed.

And on rare occasions indeed, they will see him, hands clasped behind his back, staring off toward England with a wistful expression on his face or tracing a symbol of a circle inscribed in a triangle with a line through it on the frosted panes of glass.

His sharp eyes think that, if you tilted the elder wand sideways, it could look much like a G within an A. He will use it that way for their crest, perhaps, when the world is at their feet. Dumbledore and Grindelwald, Gellert and Albus, immortal Masters of Death, inheritors of the Peverells… has a nice ring to it. A smidgeon long for Gellert's tastes, but he supposes people will shorten it when they are announced.

Gellert plans to rule a peaceful world, and Muggles shall live unmolested, though second-class citizens, it is true. Aren't they that to begin with, lacking magic? He admits that they have new and inventive ways to kill each other and to subsist without the aid of spells. He supposes that he will have to have a panel of Muggle scientists at his beck and call as well, just to monitor their progress, and perhaps a Muggle who is nominally on his council just to keep up appearances. Every several decades or so, he might even listen to one of the ideas posed by said councilor, if he's in a good mood and Albus cajoles him nicely.

* * *

Grindelwald rubs his eyes in weary frustration and sighs, putting down his quill. He replies to the head of one of his advisors that has appeared in his fireplace.

"Look, I told the Americans vis a vis the Japanese that if they want to kill each other, lovely, I'll help, but let me do it for you in a way that doesn't involve damaging delicate ecosystems and leaving radiation residue for decades." He listens to the advisor's muffled reply from his undisclosed location. "Can you get them to hold off on the atomic bomb strategy for a while, just until I figure out how to cast an obliteration curse that will wipe out only the Japanese Muggles… Ah, excellent. Cheers. No, I have faith in you. Do it for me."

It is not the war that is wearying him so, but rather, the wizard in his library.

His impetuous better nature insists that he should just pin Albus's arms above his head, bend him over a table and press his suit with kisses and caresses; his years have tempered that nature and his darker, warier side councils  _patience_ …  _stealth_. He does not want the other man to come to him shrinking and guilty. He wants them to rule the world together, and it is unthinkable that things will end otherwise between them. He will do whatever is required; he will kill whoever stands in his way: that Doge boy has to go, naturally, since he was trying to rally troops to rescue Albus or somesuch ridiculous nonsense.

His sister Ariana, well, that was an accident and Gellert still isn't sure whose curse it was that killed her, but he's not sorry she's gone. She was a hindrance to Albus's genius and had to be neutralized, as all threats to their glorious future must be. He ran, it is true, but he was a calculating boy of fifteen and did not want to meet the Dementors for a murder he did not commit because of Albus's paranoid goat-obsessed brother Aberforth. He recouped his losses and always intended to come back or write a letter, apologize or explain… but then he knew that Albus had renounced the Hallows quest and feared his own power, as Gellert's victory was foretold to him in a prophecy.

And now here he is with a trail of blood and broken minds behind him as he climbs his way to the skies —always justified in his broader scope, never on a whim, and never the weak, pregnant women or children— and so is Albus, and it has all come true, all but the last section (and that is as much up to Albus as it is to Gellert's own powers of manipulation and charm). He must trust now in Albus' continuing love for him, and that he can machinate to use that love for his Greater Good as he repairs Albus's mind from its debasing association with dullards and fools.

Albus is not naïve enough to think him benign, certainly; he is kidnapping him, after all, and he has killed before, will do so again. Yet if Albus, self-deceiving, thinks even for an instant that he is a 'good influence' on Gellert, then Gellert will be able to slip inside and work his will and Albus will be his again.

They will burn brighter than the phoenixes he raises.

* * *

Albus scans and reads the books in Gellert's library until his eyes ache behind his glasses and his legs tingle from him sitting on them cross-legged as he pores through ancient mythology and old lore. There are lemon candy wrappers scattered throughout some of the books to mark the places Grindelwald left off reading, and Albus seems to recall Gellert hating lemon drops in the summer they shared. Perhaps they were an acquired taste? Perhaps they remind him of someone?

He continues to search through books of Dark Magic, forbidden texts, until he finds the basis for the curses Gellert threw at him in their duel. He reads further, delving into secret nooks and crannies for Gellert's most prized possessions until he stumbles upon the tomes Gellert surely meant for him to find when he mentioned that his library was "interesting": books that speak in hushed tones of the Three, of the Hallows. Texts he has not touched in forty years, vowed never to view again; his fingers tremble over the pages as he scans the words in various languages, wondering if they could hold the answer to his present condition of imprisonment.

It had been a game between them years and years ago, and he turns his mind to it now. If only he had the cloak of invisibility, he could pass unseen out of the castle; if only he had the strength to wrest the Elder Wand from Gellert, he could use it to defeat him as he had meant to do in the first place; if only he had the Resurrection Stone, he could- well, admittedly, the Resurrection Stone was of little help in his current situation, but it had always been the Hallow he most longed for, and perhaps the ghost of Ariana would startle Gellert enough that he could make a run for it.

Albus smiles faintly at his own foolishness; the Hallows are not the answer to eternal life, of course. He cured himself of that delusion long ago. But they are Gellert's reason for keeping him here, perhaps. Does he mean to defeat Hitler, gain control of Europe in gratitude and call the other Hallows to himself somehow?

 _He who would rule the Hallows, master Death, must be mad… all that power concentrated in one individual would spell disaster, but if it could be spread amongst two or three, perhaps…Gellert already has the wand, which he views as most powerful, but the ring…_ Dumbledore knows, or thinks he knows, where to find the invisibility cloak. There is a wizarding family in Godric's Hollow that sports the Peverell crest, the sign of the Hallows… it is the ring that has puzzled and stumped him these many years. Where could it be?

He rests his head upon his arms and closes his eyes, the better to visualize places where he has seen the Hallows symbol before.

* * *

Gellert finds him there long after the sun has risen, dreaming upon a book, his glasses askew and falling off his nose.

He has refrained from touching Albus thus far since his capture, and he congratulates himself on his patience, in all contrast to his own desires. He cannot resist a minor indulgence now; he touches two fingers to his lips, then to the other man's mouth in a gesture of benediction.

Gellert cups his cheek and the sleeping Albus shifts toward his touch; he smiles, melancholy, for the years they have lost. Both his better and darker natures are content, however, in the knowledge that somewhere beyond his conscious mind, Albus still reaches for him.


End file.
